DMITRIY BOGDANOV: MAN IN TIGHTS
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: Dean. Tights. Ballet? Oh, the humanity. Meanwhile, for Sam, things seen cannot be unseen. Written for my friend and fellow fanfic writer, Dizzo, for her birthday.


Written as a special birthday present for everybody's favorite fanfic author and friend, Dizzo, whose birthday is today. Happy birthday, my friend. I hope you enjoy!

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Disclaimer: Neither the boys nor anything related to Supernatural belongs to me. I'm just having some fun with the boys, playing around with Eric Kripke's sandbox.

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**DMITRIY BOGDANOV: MAN IN TIGHTS**

**By: Vanessa Sgroi**

"Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"But, Sam, this…getup…shows practically _everything_!"

"C'mon, Dean, it can't be that bad."

"Sam, this just isn't natural."

"Dean, c'mon, we're running out of time."

"Explain to me again why can't we just break in in the middle of the night?"

"Because he's due to attack again at 11 o'clock. And this particular ballet ends at midnight. We don't want anyone else to die, remember?"

Dean sighed miserably and stepped from behind the dressing room curtain.

Sam gaped at his tights-clad brother for a second before his eyes slammed shut. "Wow. You…uh…you weren't kidding. It…uh…shows more of you than I ever wanted to see." He opened his eyes but kept his gaze averted.

"Why aren't you doing this again?"

"Because…I'm…uh…too tall."

"It's not like I'm short!" Ire flashed in Dean's eyes.

"Whatever, dude. I'd never pass for a danseur in the ballet. You…you've got more of the right…build."

Dean pulled distractedly at his white tights, trying to discreetly adjust himself. "You so owe me pie—lots of pie—for this one!"

"Look, it'll be easy. You just need to get backstage, find that Prix Benois de la Danse lifetime achievement award, say the counter-spell, and we'll be rid of one Sergei Volkov forever."

"We better be. 'Cause this…" Dean gestured to his tight-fitting leotard, "this is just…wrong on so many levels."

Sam shrugged, keeping his gaze only on Dean's face. "Could be worse…you could be naked."

The fiery glare Dean shot his way should've reduced him to a pile of ash. Sam bit his lower lip to stifle anymore attempts at humor. "So—you ready?"

"Do I look ready?"

In truth, Dean looked ready to chew nails. Or throw a punch. Sam wisely kept his distance.

"Fine. Let's get this over with," muttered Dean grimly.

Sam watched his brother head for the backstage door marked "Dancers Only". His steps were heavy, plodding, and awkward, a far cry from his usual grace and fluidity when in full-on hunter stealth mode. "Dean!" he called softly, waiting for his brother to look over his shoulder, "Relax!"

Dean rolled his eyes, opened the door, and slipped through, grumbling under his breath at Sam's advice. _Relax? RELAX? In this freakin' getup? Not likely._

The hunter paused just inside the door and allowed his eyes to adjust to the relative gloom. Thankfully, the immediate area was empty, allowing Dean precious time to scan for the object of his desire—a small crystal statue of butterflies in flight. Counters full of make-up, jewelry, feathers and other geegaws ringed three-quarters of the cramped room. Along the far wall was a rack of brightly-colored tutus and ethereal scarves. And next to it stood an old glass-front display case along the far wall. Within were a multitude of statues, all glittering dully in the mediocre light.

Dean quickly found the one engraved with Sergei Volkov's name. _Dude, seriously? THIS is what you're so attached to? _Shaking his head, he picked the old lock on the case, and grabbed the statue from inside. Holding it in his fist, Dean hurriedly muttered the counter-spell and shoved the statue back in place, closing the display door just as a bevy of dancers made their way into the room. They eyed him curiously.

He plastered on his most charming smile and began inching his way toward the exit, not unappreciative of the lithe female bodies through which he was navigating. Dean was steps away from freedom when two hands came to rest on his shoulders.

An accented voice boomed from behind him. "You must be Dmitriy! Dmitriy Bogdanov, our stand-in for tonight's performance!" The hands turned Dean around. "I am Ivan Petrov. Producer, director, AND choreographer for this masterpiece!"

"Stand in? What? No!"

"Come, come, don't be nervous! This ballet—she is _magnific_! The opening is all yours! We must get you into position. The stage—it is this way." The hands guided the flummoxed hunter to the edge of the stage and gave him a little push.

"But…but…I…"

"Take your place! The music is about to start!"

"I…I…I can't! I'm…uh…I'm injured!" Dean let his left knee go soft and he stumbled. "I…uhh…sprained my ankle! See!" He affected an exaggerated limp. "No dancing for me!"

"No, no! We will wrap it—the show MUST go on!" wailed Ivan.

"But…"

"I am afraid that's not possible," a new voice—Sam's voice—suddenly joined in, only it had a mysterious Russian accent. "I am his agent. You see, I…we…thought his injury had healed enough to perform but clearly that is not the case. I must take him to have it re-examined so as not to deprive the world of such immense talent." Sam slipped an arm around Dean's waist as if to support and guide an injured soul.

"Dmitriy, Dmitriy, are you sure?" implored Ivan.

"Oh, I'm sure." Dean adopted a look of agony and panted convincingly as Sam led him backstage and ultimately to the exit.

As they made their way through the door, they saw a slim, tights-clad, harried-looking man rushing toward them. The man nodded at them as he passed.

"Looks like the real Dmitriy has arrived," Sam announced, his Russian accent still in place.

"Great. Now's a good time to get the hell out of here!"

"So you found it?"

"Of course, I found it! And said the mumbo-jumbo over it. We're good. Sergei's soon to be toast."

"Okay then, Dmitriy, let's go."

"In a minute."

"I thought we were in a hurry?"

"We are."

"Then what…"

"Pants! I need pants first! I can't drive baby dressed like this."

Sam grinned. "Yeah, my eyes could use the break too."

Dean shot him another glare while slipping into the backseat to change while Sam stood guard. "You're just jealous of my manly physique."

Sam snorted. "Not hardly."

Once changed into comfortable jeans and a t-shirt, Dean slid into the driver's seat with a sigh of absolute relief. He cranked the key in the ignition. "Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"If you ever mention my name and the word tights in the same sentence again, I will end you."

Sam laughed. "Okay…Dmitriy."

"So, where DID you learn to do that Russian accent anyway?"


End file.
